


So This Is Christmas

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 16,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Sherlock, John and Rosie celebrate the Christmas season with the rest of their family. It's not always perfect, but they all do their best. Most of the time.Chapter 24: And to All a Good Night:Everything was ready; everything was done. The gifts were wrapped, the cards were mailed, the flat was decorated, Rosie was asleep and tomorrow they would drive to Gram and Grandad's after they spent a leisurely morning here together. Well, as leisurely as Christmas morning with a toddler was likely to be.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 602
Kudos: 480
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Snowflake

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to join in the 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, [the prompts can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2019_Advent_Ficlet_Challenge/profile) Anyone is welcome and you don't have to do all the prompts if you don't want to!
> 
> This is my fifth year writing Christmas ficlets, and after writing a first-time storyline for the past two years, I decided this year I would have Sherlock and John already be together. I will probably jump around in time over multiple years, like I usually do, but this first ficlet is set during Rosie's second Christmas season, with the assumption that Sherlock and John got together during her first Christmas. 
> 
> My ficlets will not be beta-read or Brit-picked due to time constraints, and I'm sticking with American spelling. It's hard enough writing a ficlet every day! Hope you enjoy reading them!
> 
> Each chapter title is that day's prompt.

Rosie was fine the first three times she fell off the tiny toddler slide as she attempted to climb up it the wrong way, but after the fourth time, she started to cry and Sherlock knew it was time to go home.

He stood up from the bench he'd been sitting on and slipped his phone into his coat pocket. He'd been focused entirely on her since they'd arrived at the park—the phone was simply a decoy to prevent other parents from trying to talk to him while she played. Though there hadn't been very many other families around this afternoon, not with the temperature as low as it was today. At least the rain had held off so far. He wouldn't have taken her out at all, but she'd refused to nap and he knew that the best way to tire her out was to let her run off her excess energy outdoors. 

He reached the play area in three long strides and squatted down next to her to help her back onto her feet. "Up we go, Rosie. You're okay." 

"No! Sh'wock!" She got her feet underneath her and then thrust her hands toward him, the mittens that were attached to her coat sleeves swaying with the motion. "Cold hands!" she bawled.

"I'm sure they are." He took hold of one of the mittens, but she pulled her arm away before he could wrestle it onto her hand.

"No! Cold hands!" she repeated. 

Sherlock sighed. The mittens had been attached to the coat for nearly two months now, but he'd not yet seen them on her hands. "All right. Give me your hands." He peeled off his own gloves, and she grudgingly let him take both her hands in his so he could rub some warmth back into them. "Is that better?" he asked, tipping his head down toward her, eyebrows raised in the same expression he used when humoring her father.

"No! Cold!" She pulled her hands away and crossed her arms. Her glare was also very much like John's.

"Oh, you're cold? Why didn't you say so?" He reached for her hands again, coaxing them away from her chest, then brought them to his mouth to blow a long raspberry against them.

"Sh'wock!" Rosie said, and didn't laugh, but he knew he had her. He did it again and she began to giggle.

She still wouldn't let him put the mittens on, but didn't object when he pulled her hat from his coat pocket and worked it on over her curls, so he knew she really was cold. He put his own gloves back on. "I think we need to go home and let you thaw out in front of the fireplace before you turn into an ice lolly."

She giggled again and allowed herself to be scooped up into his arms. "No ice owwie," she told him, and wiped her face twice across his scarf before settling her head against his shoulder.

Sherlock frowned and debated if it was worth trying to reach into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. Probably not. "I hope you're not getting sick like your Daddy." John had brought home a cold virus from work, and while he'd tried to deny it for a few days, he'd spent the whole night last night coughing and sneezing. It had almost been enough to drive Sherlock out of their bed. Eventually they'd both fallen asleep, but Sherlock knew John hadn't gotten much rest. That was part of the reason he'd taken Rosie out to the park—to give him a chance to catch up on sleep while the flat was quiet.

"Daddy sick," Rosie said sadly, and Sherlock marveled at how quickly she could switch between being a completely self-centered almost-two-year-old and a tiny person capable of great compassion.

"Let's go home and see Daddy." He shifted his hold on her and felt a few raindrops beginning to fall. Perfect timing.

"Wain!" announced Rosie, lifting her head from Sherlock's shoulder. "Go home!" She brought both her hands down in little fists to pound on his chest and arm.

"Yes, yes. Going home. No hitting." He began to walk along the path toward Baker Street. They passed a few dog walkers who were huddled inside their coats, waiting for their dogs to do their business, but for the most part the path was deserted. He took advantage of the situation to press his lips into Rosie's hair as she rested her head against him again. He had his reputation to protect, but he also wanted her to know what he felt when he held her.

"Whas dat?" Rosie's head popped up from his shoulder—so much for his hope that she would fall asleep in his arms. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock paused and looked around, wondering what could have caught her attention on such a dreary afternoon. 

"Dat! No wain!" She pointed her finger into the air, and Sherlock realized what she meant. The light rain had turned over to snow, and for a few seconds a flurry of large, wet flakes surrounded them. 

"Those are snowflakes, Rosie. It's snowing." He moved her so that he was holding her on his hip with one arm and held his other hand out flat, allowing a few flakes to land on his glove. 

"Snowfakes!" Rosie yelled. "Snowfakes! Cold!"

"Yes, they are cold. Let's get home quickly." He dropped his hand, wiping it on his coat, and put both his arms around her again so he could walk faster.

"Snowfakes!" Rosie shouted again. "Where dey go?"

He thought she meant the ones that had been on his hand, and tried to distill the process of melting into words she would understand, but then he saw that the precipitation in the air had changed back almost entirely to rain again, in the space of just a few seconds. Winter in London. "They'll be back, Rosie. Another day. We'll have snowflakes again, I promise." 

"Yay!" She clapped her hands together and then threw her arms around his neck.

He let her snuggle closer, not minding if she wiped her nose on his scarf this time. He resisted the urge to speed up his pace, letting himself enjoy the experience of holding her as they walked through the rain. Maybe it would change to snow again, and he would see her excitement once more, but if it not, he could wait. They had all winter to spend together, and many more years yet to come.


	2. Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... 2 chapters in and we're already jumping in time and have lost the fluffiness. :)

"Dad, I need some money." Rosie stuck her head into the kitchen, where John was writing up a blog post while Sherlock sat hunched over a row of test tubes. 

"What for?" John asked, without looking up from his laptop. She probably wanted to go out to eat with her friends—Chloe and Abby had come home with her after school, and the girls had been giggling in the living room for the past hour.

"We're going shopping to buy each other's Christmas gifts."

"All right." He saved his work on his blog and pushed his chair away from the table so he could stand up and pull out his wallet. "Did you get all your school work done?" 

"Didn't have any." She stepped all the way into the kitchen. "Well, there's a chem test tomorrow, but...." 

Sherlock looked up from his experiment and met Rosie's eyes and they both laughed.

John shook his head. Rosie definitely didn't need to worry about passing chemistry, but she did frequently have to be nagged to do her homework. She seemed to take after Sherlock more than John himself sometimes. "How much money do you need?"

"Oh, not much. We're just going to the thrift store."

"What?" John froze, his wallet in his hand. Why would she— "Why would you go to a thrift store?"

"Because, Dad." Rosie huffed and put her hand out for the money he hadn't taken from his wallet yet.

"You don't need to go to there. You can buy new things for your friends. I'll give you enough money."

"No, Dad. Come on. Thrifting is where all the best clothes are, and stuff like records and CDs and Abby got this cool wooden duck last week. You can't buy that new."

"But why.... You don't have to...." He stumbled over what he was trying to say.

"I've got it." Sherlock slid off his stool and crossed to stand in front of Rosie, his back to John. He slipped his wallet from his pocket. "You remember the PIN?" he asked, as he held out his card to her.

"Of course I do." Rosie was rolling her eyes—John couldn't see her face but he knew she was doing it.

"Good, then you'll remember that I can see how much you spend, as well," Sherlock told her. "Be back in time for dinner, and no stopping for sweets." He turned around, meeting John's eyes with a questioning look as Rosie mumbled a thank you and took off, pulling her friends out the door to the flat.

John exhaled and put his wallet away, then sat down again, trying to remember where he'd left off in his blog post. Something about a forgery. He shook his head. Rosie hadn't meant any harm. She had no way of knowing—John had actually taken himself completely by surprise with his reaction to her request. 

"John." Sherlock sat down next to him at the table. "What was that about?"

Instead of looking at him, John pulled his laptop closer. "Can't you deduce it?"

"No," Sherlock said. He scooted his chair closer and put one hand on the table, palm up, next to John's computer.

John swallowed. Maybe Sherlock really couldn't tell what was wrong at a glance. Or maybe he was just being kind—that did happen sometimes, despite what people outside of the family thought. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to make sure Rosie and her friends were out of the house entirely, then took a deep breath before speaking, still not looking directly at Sherlock. "I.... When Rosie was a baby.... No, long before that." He hadn't thought about it consciously, but he remembered. "When I was her age, or even younger, I promised myself that if I ever had kids, they wouldn't have to have used things. I would buy new for them, always. Not that I planned to spoil them with whatever they wanted, but I didn't want them to feel...." He trailed off, trying to school his face to be expressionless, but knowing he was failing.

 _The hand me down shirts and trainers from Harry. They were blue, but not the same color blue that all the other boys wore. The clarinet with the rusty keys that wouldn't come clean no matter what I tried. Even Harry's old phone, complete with an inscription from her ex._ He shouldn't have been ashamed, but he had been. Still was, when he thought about it. He'd wished so hard when he was a child, but it never made a difference. He knew his parents had loved him, and had done their best, but he'd never wanted to put his own child in the same position. 

He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, curled tightly below the keys of his laptop. He didn't remember making them into fists.

Sherlock settled his left hand over John's right. "You've kept your promise—she's never had to want for anything."

"I know." Intellectually, he recognized that there was nothing wrong with letting Rosie and her friends shop second-hand, and that it was in fact environmentally conscientious of them to do so, but emotionally, it was a different story. "It's just—"

"I understand," Sherlock said. 

John tried to give him a smile. He knew that Sherlock didn't really understand, not in the same way that someone who had grown up without money could, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. 

"Come here."

John shut his laptop and let himself be pulled sideways into an embrace. He turned his head to rest against Sherlock's shoulder and exhaled, knowing that even if he did make some mistakes in parenting Rosie, at least he would always have Sherlock to help him out along the way.


	3. The More The Merrier

"I've got a problem." Rosie pulled a chair out from the desk by the window and dragged it over to sit in between John and Sherlock in front of the fireplace.

John turned off his phone and set it on the table next to his chair; across from him, Sherlock did the same. Rosie didn't often come to them for advice these days. "What's wrong, darling?" John asked.

"Nothing's wrong, really. It's just...you know how Aunt Molly and Uncle Greg said I could bring a guest to their Christmas party if I wanted to?" 

"Yes?" John vaguely remembered Molly saying that, which was doubtless better than Sherlock, who probably didn't even know Molly and Greg were having a party.

"I don't know who to bring."

Not a terrible problem, and one he could help her with. "Abby? Or would she not want to go because she's Jewish?"

"No, Dad! I'm not bringing a friend! I want to bring a date."

"A date?" John frowned. He didn't object to her dating—she was almost 18, after all. She'd had a boyfriend briefly about a year ago, but it hadn't lasted long and she hadn't mentioned anyone else since then. "Okay, then bring a date if you want to."

"But I don't know who to bring!"

"She just told you that, John." Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair, ignoring John's glare. "How about Leo? He's the best-looking of the candidates."

"What candidates?" John asked. It was possible Rosie and Sherlock had discussed her current crushes before today, but it was equally possible that Sherlock knew simply by looking at her whom she was considering.

Sherlock answered. "Leo, Bella...." He squinted at her. "Oh, not Gabe Simpson—you're over him, aren't you? So who's the third?"

"Daniel," Rosie said. "You don't know him."

"Hmm." Sherlock reached for his phone. "What's his last name?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. Don't google him."

"But I thought you wanted advice on who to bring?"

Rosie sighed and then nodded. "But I don't just want the one who you think is cutest, Sherlock."

"I'm not going to judge him solely on looks. I want to check what he's posted on social media, to see if he deserves a date with you."

John jumped back into the conversation. "Okay, Rosie. It doesn't matter what we think of people you like. This is just a first date, right? So tell us what you like about each of them."

Rosie wrinkled her nose in thought. "Leo is cute—Sherlock's right about that. And he's really nice, but I think he's too dumb for me to have a long-term relationship with him, unfortunately. But I wouldn't mind a few dates."

"All right." Leo was on the slow side—she was right about that. "Are either of the others someone that you might want to have a longer relationship with?"

"I don't know. Bella likes a lot of the same things I do, but she says she hates London and can't wait to get out of the city when she's done with her A-levels, so that probably wouldn't last, either. And most of the time I'm pretty sure I like boys more than girls, but we kissed at Chloe's birthday party and it was pretty amazing, to be honest."

"I see." John nodded, wondering what it must be like to be Rosie, perfectly comfortable in discussing her attraction to both boys and girls with her parents while she was still only a teenager. "And what about Daniel?"

"I don't know him as well as Leo and Bella. We met two weeks ago while I was working at the shelter. He was volunteering in the kitchen. I liked him a lot, and we've texted, but he's at a different school so I've only met him that one time."

"Hm, that is a tough choice. None of them seem to be a clear favorite, but you don't have to bring anyone if you don't want to. Molly was just giving you the option—"

"Bring them all," Sherlock said. 

"Sorry, what?" Rosie and John asked at the same time.

"You both heard me." Sherlock picked up his phone again and leaned back in his chair. 

"I can't bring three dates to a party!"

"Sure, you can," Sherlock said. "The more, the merrier. They'll get to meet us, and a number of Scotland Yard's finest, plus Molly, the medical examiner who never shies away from an awkward conversation. Most of us will probably be drunk. Whichever of your prospects survives the evening is the one you ask on a second date."

Rosie stared at him, then turned to John. "Dad?"

John shrugged. "He's had worse ideas. You could try it and see what happens, if you think you can handle three dates at once."

"Of course she can handle it. And don't think of them as dates—think of them as people auditioning for a date. It'll be fun."

Rosie shook her head, but then nodded. "All right. I'll try it. This will probably be easier than bringing them each home to meet you two without any outside witnesses."

"That's the spirit." Sherlock grinned at her, and John reached for his phone to warn Molly about their plan.


	4. Lights

John woke up to the sound of Rosie crying. Which was unusual—she was almost four now, and while she cried occasionally if she was injured or unhappy, it certainly wasn't the norm for her, especially not in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the novelty of sleeping here at her grandparents' house—well, Sherlock's parents, but everyone had long ago agreed that they were family. 

He pushed himself upright, blinking in the dark. Why was it so dark? Next to him, Sherlock mumbled something incoherent and rolled over.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," John said. He couldn't even be properly resentful, because he knew that if Sherlock woke up all the way, he'd be awake for hours, while John himself could go back to sleep under just about any circumstances. 

He turned to check the time on the digital clock next to the bed, but couldn't see it—the power must have gone out. That would probably be enough to make Rosie cry, if she woke up in a strange room in the pitch dark.

He grabbed his phone to use as a light source, then made his way down the hall, only stubbing his toe once along the way. Rosie's crying went up an octave when he pushed open the door to her room.

"Hey, Rosie. It's okay. I'm here. Stop crying or you'll wake up Gram and Grandad."

"It's dark, Daddy! Where's my night light?"

John turned his phone toward the wall, illuminating the unlit bulb of the night light. "The power's out, so it's just a little dark right now. It should come back on soon." He hoped it would, at least. He didn't fancy bringing her into the bedroom he and Sherlock were using—the bed wouldn't fit all three of them, and he knew which of them would most likely end up sleeping on the sofa downstairs.

He sat down on the bed next to her, willing to wait a few minutes for the power to come back on before he went hunting for a torch to leave with her. The living room was full of candles, but he wasn't going to leave an open flame with her overnight.

Before a minute even passed, he heard someone stumbling down the hall. 

"Daddy!" Rosie screamed, and clutched at his arm. 

"It's okay, darling. It's just Sherlock," he said, as an unmistakable outline appeared in the doorway. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock yawned the question toward the two of them. He hadn't bothered to grab his own phone for a light.

"Power's out," John said.

"I see that. Why are we screaming?"

"Your hair scared me," Rosie said. "I thought you were a monster."

John shone the phone's light on him, trying not to laugh. "His hair is a bit monstrous, but I think he's pretty harmless."

Sherlock stepped into the room, running a hand through his hair without improving it at all. "Sorry, Rosie. Gram and Grandad do tend to lose power frequently out here in the country, especially when it's this windy outside."

There was another flurry of movement in the hallway; Rosie tightened her grip on John's arm but didn't scream this time. A moment later Gram and Grandad appeared in the doorway, wearing matching plaid pyjamas and each carrying a torch. "Is everything okay?" Gram asked.

"Grammy, it's too dark!" Rosie said.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Let me go find one of our camp lanterns for you." 

"I used up all the batteries for the lanterns listening to my CDs in my workshop this summer," Grandad said. 

"Are you sure? Why didn't you buy more?"

"Haven't got around to it yet. But don't you worry, little Rosie-Rose. I know just what to do." He turned and dashed away, moving much more quickly through the darkened hall than John would have expected.

"Where is Grandad going?" Rosie asked.

"I'm not sure," John said, as they heard him descend the stairs to the living room and the front door open and close. 

"Oh, I hope he put some shoes on," Gram said. "It's chilly out there tonight."

John frowned, wondering why he would have gone outside at this hour. "Do you have a generator?" 

"No. Why would we have a generator?"

"Because you live in the middle of nowhere and lose power at least once a month," Sherlock replied. 

"Hmph. It's not been a problem for us. We can use the fireplaces if it starts to get cold in here."

"I'm cold," Rosie said.

"No, you're not." John put his arm around her. "You've got plenty of warm blankets and fuzzy pyjamas."

"But it's dark in here and I'm tired, Daddy. I want to go home. Take me home."

"Not until Tuesday. Don't you want to go ice skating with Gram and Grandad tomorrow?"

"Yes, but it's too dark now." Rosie crawled onto his lap and began to sob against his chest.

"Oh, dear. Let me go get her a glass of water." Gram bustled out of the room.

John gave Sherlock a look that he probably couldn't even see. He knew Sherlock's parents meant well, but having them around was making Rosie less likely to go back to sleep. Maybe he should just lie down with her in this room and tell everyone else to go back to bed. He was just about to suggest it when he heard Grandad come back inside. The power hadn't come back on, and John still had no idea what he may have been doing outside. 

"Grandad!" Rosie shouted, and John had his answer, as Rosie's grandfather entered her bedroom with a string of fairy lights looped over his shoulder. 

"Rosamundio!" Grandad unwound the string of lights and draped it over the foot of her bed frame. "Here you go, Miss Rosaboo. Some lights just for you." He handed her the battery-powered remote that controlled them. "If it's too bright, you can turn them off, then if you get scared you can turn them right back on again."

"Thank you, Grandad!" Rosie bounced off John's lap and into Grandad's arms. He caught her and then guided her back into bed with the ease of a man who had done the same thing many times in his life.

John leaned over to pull the blankets up around her and dropped a kiss on her forehead, then moved quickly to shepherd everyone out of Rosie's room. "Goodnight, sweetheart," he whispered, and tiptoed away from her bed, grateful for her grandad and the string of fairy lights that had saved the day...and night.


	5. Wind

Rosie's favorite gift by far was the toy gun from the package that Mycroft handed to her after he had already presented her with his usual gift of stock certificates. She'd immediately abandoned everything else she’d received and was currently hiding behind the Christmas tree, the barrel of the gun poking through the branches as she followed Sherlock's movements. He was humoring her, ducking behind John's chair and then peeking over the top of it before darting out of the way again when she tried to fire her weapon. 

John was not amused. He cornered Mycroft in the kitchen. "What the hell were you thinking?" 

"It's a Nerf gun, John. It didn't occur to me that you might be the type to object to your child shooting foam bullets." 

"That's not what I mean and you know it." 

Mycroft scoffed. "She barely glanced at the tag. Does she even know how to read?" 

"She's almost seven and you know very well that she can read." John took a step closer, forcing Mycroft to back up against the worktop. 

"Well. Even if she did read the tag, the name won't mean anything to her." 

"She'll know it says ‘Aunt,’ and that the name after it isn't Harry or Molly, and those are the only aunts she has." 

"Oh, is that the story we're telling now? What happened to your and Sherlock's insistence that we’re all just one big happy family? Aunt Molly? Uncle Mycroft? Gram and Grandad? Why should we omit Aunt Eurus?" 

"Mycroft...." John could feel himself tipping closer to violence. He forced himself to step back and lowered his head, trying to control his breathing. 

"Everyone was so upset with me for keeping Eurus a secret. And now you're angry that I'm not. How can I win?" 

"You can't." John lifted his chin again and met Mycroft's eyes. "You. Keep her away from my daughter." 

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, then huffed, throwing his shoulders back. "No need to worry. Eurus simply expressed a desire to give her niece a gift, and I agreed to act as deliveryman. You may rest assured that she is still being held securely, and I am certainly not about to bring a child to visit Sherrinford. Eurus and Rosamund will not be anywhere near each other at any time in the foreseeable future." 

"They will never be anywhere near each other," John said. "If you ever let Eurus have any direct contact with Rosie, you will find out that Rosie's not the only one around here with a gun. And trust me, my bullets are not made out of foam." He unclenched his fists and turned away, leaving the kitchen without bothering to wait to see Mycroft’s reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that when I came up with the prompt "wind" it was so I could include Eurus/The East Wind. :) (Also I may enjoy writing angry!John a little too much and it's been months since the last time I got to do it.)


	6. Angel

Rosie was a little worried about how Dad was going to react when he saw her drawing, but she'd worked really hard on it and wanted to show it to him, too. She pulled it from the tube she'd carried it home in and carefully unrolled it, spreading the paper out on the kitchen table. 

Dad's eyebrows went up—Rosie was watching him closely—and then he stepped away from the table to turn on the overhead light, even though it wasn't dark out yet. He came back to the table and leaned his hands on the edge of it, staring down at her drawing. "Rosie this...this is stunning."

"You like it?" She walked around the table to stand next to him, fiddling with one corner of the paper that was still curling. "I spent a long time on it. If I was really any good, I'd be able to draw a lot faster."

Dad looked up and met her eyes, then shook his head. "No. Rosie. This is excellent. This. It's.... Is this why you wanted to see our wedding photos a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah. I mean, I have those pictures of Mum from when I was a baby, but the wedding album had some really good close-ups." She took her phone out of her pocket and brought up the photo she'd used as a reference for the drawing.

Dad took the phone from her hand and stared at the screen for a moment—she had cropped him out of the image so she could focus on drawing Mum for her school project, but he didn't seem to mind. After he gave her the phone back, he looked at the drawing again, tracing his finger over Mum's face. Rosie had to stop herself from yelling that he was going to smudge the pencil—she could tell he was really serious about studying it. "You made her an angel?" he asked, as if he'd just noticed the wings that she'd spent days doing the shading on. 

"Yeah. I know she wasn't an angel in real-life." Rosie bit at her lip. Dad and Sherlock had told her some stuff about Mum, and Mrs. Hudson had told her even more. "But I've still always thought of her as, you know...sort of watching over me." It sounded dumb, when she said it out loud like that. 

"No, yeah. That's—" Dad frowned down at the drawing, then turned to look at Rosie. He frowned even more. Rosie was worried for a moment, until he said, "I knew you looked like her, but I never realized just how much. Your eyes and nose and even your ears are like hers." He reached out and tucked her hair behind her right ear.

"Dad...."

He didn't stop; he got even worse. "You're my angel, darling," he said. "And you’re an amazing artist." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead—it was so annoying how much shorter she still was next to him. But she let him do it, and didn't even squirm away from his hug. She felt a lot better about her drawing and her talent as an artist now, even if it was just Dad who thought she was any good.


	7. Ashes and Soot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a 221B. :)

"So you see, Rosie, ash is what's left over when something has completely finished burning. Whereas soot—" Sherlock paused as the flat's door opened behind him. 

"Daddy!" Rosie shouted, bouncing up from where she knelt in front of the fireplace. "I'm learning about ashes and soot! Come see!" 

"Ah, no, darling. I don't want to get my work clothes all sooty."

"Or ashy!" Rosie shouted.

"Yes, that's right." Sherlock stood, turning so he could see both John and Rosie, and gestured with the fireplace poker. "We're more likely to have ash in our fireplace, since soot is more commonly produced by the incomplete combustion of coal or—"

"I love you," John said, and dropped his work bag onto his chair. 

Sherlock frowned. "I know. I—"

"No, I'm reminding myself that I love you." John waved a hand in their direction. "Carry on with your lecture. I need to shower. There was a lot of flu at the surgery today."

"Daddy! Do you love me, too?"

"Of course I do, Rosie. I love you both a whole lot. But I still don't want to listen to you discuss ashes and soot." John headed off through the kitchen, but Rosie didn't let Sherlock dwell on his slight for long. 

"Now that I know all about ash, can we please please make something burn?"


	8. Warm Bath

Sherlock turned the tap off and opened the door to the bathroom just as John came into the bedroom. "She finally asleep?"

"Yeah, I think so." John yawned and blinked his eyes shut for a moment. "She's snoring, at least. She kept down the last few sips of water that I gave her, and her temperature is almost back to normal."

"Good." Sherlock let himself sag a bit in relief, then switched his attention from Rosie to John. "Take off all your clothes," he said.

"Do not tell me you're in the mood for—"

"No, no. You have hours-old vomit on your trousers and more recent toddler-snot on your shirt. Take off all your clothes. I've drawn a warm bath already."

John looked torn, and Sherlock knew how hard it was for him to put aside his concern for Rosie. "She'll be fine. The bathroom is right below her room. We'll hear if she wakes up."

John nodded and began to strip, dropping his clothes into the laundry basket by the door. When he got down to his underwear, he stepped into the steamy bathroom and took a deep breath. "Oh, you're an angel."

"Hardly." Sherlock backed himself up against the sink; there wasn't enough space in the room for two adults to fit comfortably.

"You put some of Rosie's lavender soap in the bath, didn't you?"

"Well, it helps her to sleep. And I know you must be tired."

John laughed and then stretched up for a kiss. He dragged his hands down the front of Sherlock's dressing gown. "We aren't both going to fit into that tub, though, I'm sorry to say." 

"I'm already clean." Sherlock edged away from John so that he could open his gown, showing the fresh pyjamas he wore beneath it. "Now take off your pants and vest and get into that tub."

John complied, and Sherlock watched, appreciating the view without feeling particularly compelled to join him. It was amazing how much looking after a tiny child with a gastrointestinal virus could change one's perspective. "Is the water still warm enough?"

"Yes, it's perfect." John rested his head against the back of the tub and stretched out as far as he could—he could almost straighten his legs, but not quite. Definitely not room for the two of them. "Oh, God. It's been such a long day."

"Agreed. Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Beer? Scotch? Wine? Erm, hot chocolate? Milk? Orange juice?" He thought that covered everything they had in the house.

"Wine. That's a bathtub drink, isn't it?"

"Anything can be a bathtub drink, if you're doing it right."

"I have no idea what that means, but a glass of wine would be wonderful. Thank you."

Sherlock grinned and went to pour a glass for each of them. When he returned, he sat on the floor, because the edge of the tub was too narrow to be comfortable and he thought drinking wine while sat on the toilet would be a step too far, even for him. 

John sipped at his drink and stirred the bath water around a bit with his free hand. "You give excellent baths, I must say."

"I should. I've had plenty of practice over the past year or so." 

"I hope you don't offer Rosie wine."

"No, and even the sippy cup of milk has to wait until after the bath. I've bent the rules for you."

"Thanks, love." John tipped his glass toward him before taking another swallow.

"It's because I appreciate that you don't try to dump as much water out of the tub and onto me as Rosie usually does."

John laughed and Sherlock smiled, leaning back against the wall. This was definitely not how he'd imagined a romantic evening between the two of them would go, back when they'd taken their first hesitant steps into a relationship together. But right now, he wouldn't change a thing about it, even if he could.


	9. Festive

The case had been extraordinarily simple, and Sherlock couldn't believe he had wasted his time letting this woman bore him with the details of her petty family feud. He wondered if there were some way to salvage the twenty minutes of his life he had just squandered.

"How much do I owe you?" The woman stood in the living room, halfway between Sherlock and the door to the flat, her handbag in one hand and her chequebook in the other, clearly eager to leave.

Sherlock was just as eager for her to be gone, and had no desire to take a cheque from her. He glanced one more time at the way she was dressed and the precision of her haircut and grabbed a handful of gift tags from the stash on his desk. "I'm feeling festive today. No charge, but I'll need these here by the 18th."

"Sorry, what?" The woman did not reach for the tags.

He thrust them at her again. "In lieu of payment, you are to procure the items listed on these tags and return them to me by the 18th of December, at the very latest. If no one is home here, you may leave them with the staff at Speedy's downstairs."

She hesitantly took the tags from him, juggling her chequebook and handbag to hold them, and wrinkled her nose as she read one of them aloud. "LEGO set 41381, Rescue Mission Boat." She looked up at him through her no-line bifocals. "You want me to buy you LEGOs instead of paying you for solving my case?"

He rolled his eyes. "Not for me, no. They're for a holiday toy drive for needy children."

"Oh." She looked down at the tag again.

"And I have it on good authority that that particular set may be close to selling out, so you'll need to get to the shops immediately, or order it online tonight if you hope to have it in time. Good luck!" He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped toward her, trying to urge her toward the doorway.

Instead she set her bag down by her feet and looked at what was written on the other tags. "What about these other ones? Are they hard to find, too? 'Battery-operated Tyrannosaurus Rex'?"

"I don't know. Do I look like I play with dinosaurs?"

"You knew about the LEGOs."

Sherlock growled softly and she reached down to retrieve her bag again, stuffing the tags into the pocket on the side of it. As she turned to go, she asked, "Wouldn't it be easier if I just paid your regular fee and then you used the money to go buy the gifts yourself?"

"No, it would not be easier."

"Are you doing this with your other clients?"

"Of course I am. You don't think you're special, do you?"

"Why don't you just send a cheque to the charity that's collecting gifts? Then you wouldn't have to deliver all these toys yourself."

He waved a hand at her. "I have people to deliver them for me." Rosie and her friends, plus a few of his more trustworthy homeless network members. "Now hurry up and leave so you have time to do your shopping. Those toys aren't going to buy themselves, and I know you wouldn't want to disappoint a bunch of poor children at Christmas."


	10. Once A Year

Rosie loved being home alone. It didn't happen very often, but today Dad had his monthly Saturday shift at the surgery, and Mrs. Hudson was away for an early Christmas celebration with her nephew, and Sherlock had left a few minutes ago, running down the stairs with his violin case in his hand, telling her not to go out anywhere alone while they were gone. He got into Uncle Mycroft's car out in front of the flat—she could hear them yelling at each other before the car door closed. 

Rosie knew that Sherlock thought she didn't know where he and Uncle Mycroft were going, but she did. They were going to visit Aunt Eurus. Sometimes Sherlock went by himself at other times of the year, but every December before Christmas he would go with Uncle Mycroft. She thought that they brought Gram and Grandad with them, too, because afterwards they always came to visit, but none of them would ever talk to her about Aunt Eurus. 

Rosie hadn't been able to find much about her on the internet, either, which was weird, because usually she was better than all her friends at finding stuff online. But she was pretty sure she knew where Aunt Eurus was anyway: in prison. Probably for drugs and stuff, that would explain why Dad was so against her and letting Rosie know anything about her. Maybe she was the one that had got Sherlock into doing drugs a long time ago, and then she'd started selling them herself and now she was in prison for it. And her family all visited her together once a year, except they wouldn't take Rosie with them because Dad wouldn't allow it. When she was older, she was going to go with them anyway, no matter what Dad said.

As soon as Sherlock left, she brought her tablet and phone downstairs and stretched out on the sofa, which was the only comfortable place to sit in the living room. None of her friends were around to chat, but it would be nice to spend some time watching videos and listening to music without having headphones on. 

She'd only started watching one program when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see the door to the flat open and a woman with long dark hair step through into the living room.

Rosie jumped up, her tablet and phone both falling from her lap onto the sofa. 

The woman raised both hands. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" The door the woman had just walked through and the door to the street outside had both been locked, she was sure.

"I wanted to see you." Her voice was soft but Rosie didn't trust her, because that wasn't an answer to the questions she'd just asked.

"Who are you?" she repeated. "Why didn't you knock or ring the bell like a normal person?"

"I didn't think you'd let me in."

"I—I wouldn't." Rosie swallowed. She knew she shouldn't say she was home alone. "What do you want?"

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

Rosie shook her head. She wished she'd been sitting in Dad's or Sherlock's chair, because then there'd be more space between the two of them, and the fireplace poker to grab if she needed to defend herself. Usually there were all sorts of weird things that could be used as weapons lying around the flat, but Dad had made them all clean up yesterday, because of Gram and Grandad coming to visit later. Right now, the only things she could reach were three pencils and a scribbled-out crossword puzzle that sat on the coffee table. Maybe she could flip the table over if she needed to. 

"Look at me, Rosie. Don't I remind you of anyone?" The woman threw her shoulders back and tipped her chin a little bit and somehow her whole face seemed to change and Rosie saw all at once who she was—a little of Gram, a little of Grandad, a lot of Sherlock.

"Aunt Eurus," she breathed. 

"The one and only."

"Aren't you in prison?"

"Oh, they told you about me?" Her voice changed, got happier than it had been.

Rosie shook her head. "I figured it out on my own. Dad doesn't want me to know about you at all. He gets angry at Uncle Mycroft every year when he gives me a gift from you, but Sherlock tells him to let it be."

Aunt Eurus grinned. It was kind of a scary grin, like when Sherlock was trying to frighten stupid people away, but Rosie didn't think she was trying to be scary. "I'm glad you got my gifts," she said. "Have you liked them?"

"Yes. I tried to send you a thank you note one year, but Dad said no way." He'd been a little more colorful about it than that, but Rosie still felt funny using bad words around adults. 

"John Watson...yes, he would say that, I suppose." She smiled even more, then turned slightly away from Rosie, back towards the door to the flat. "I got you another present. It's bigger than what I usually send to you, and I didn't trust Mycroft to give it to you. I know your fathers didn't think you could handle it. It's out in the hall." Aunt Eurus stepped back through the door and Rosie tensed, wondering if she should make a dash for the fire escape or grab her phone and call Dad but before she could decide Aunt Eurus came back into the flat, carrying—

Rosie gasped. "Is that a cello?" The case was huge, much larger than Sherlock's violin case, or the smaller student violin that Rosie still used.

"Yes, of course." Aunt Eurus leaned the case upright against the wall. "Three-quarters size, though I think you'll grow into full-size, despite what my brother may have said. Let me see your left hand."

Rosie took a step closer and held out her hand.

Aunt Eurus didn't try to touch her, but told her to spread out her fingers and then nodded. "Yes, you'll be fine. Height isn't as important as finger strength and dexterity, anyway. Never let a man tell you that you can't do something that you want to do, okay?"

Rosie nodded, then realized something. "This is too big of a gift to give me. It must have cost a lot."

"Don't worry about it." Aunt Eurus waved a hand. "I never get to spend any of the Holmes's family wealth, so I think I'm entitled to splurge a bit for Christmas, don't you?" She put her hands behind her back, which made her look even more like Sherlock, and glanced around the flat. "You haven't decorated for Christmas yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Are your fathers both Scrooges about the holiday?"

Rosie thought about it. "Not really. We usually decorate. We just haven't got around to it yet this year." She was usually the one to pester Dad and Sherlock into getting out all the ornaments and stuff, and now that she was older it seemed less exciting than it had when she was little.

"I see," Aunt Eurus said, and glanced at her watch, which looked shiny and new, as did her entire outfit—her jeans still looked stiff and her trainers were perfectly clean. "Well, I think I have a bit of time before I need to run out of here. Where do you keep the Christmas decorations?"

"Erm, most of them are in one of the cupboards upstairs." 

Aunt Eurus clapped her hands together. "Okay. Let's go get them, Rosie. We can decorate the whole flat together. Just think how surprised your dads will be when they get home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon reflection, I don't think the door into the flat would be locked because Rosie's room is through that door and up the stairs but I'm not changing it now.


	11. Chimney

"Stop singing," John said, turning the page of the newspaper he was trying to read.

"I can't. It's stuck in my head," Sherlock replied. Across from John, he contorted himself even more, so his legs were hanging over the back of his chair and his head drooping down from the seat cushion. "Chim-chim-iney, chim-chim-iney, chim-chim-cher-ee," he intoned, for the hundredth time that morning. 

"I swear to God, Sherlock, if you say 'chim-chim-iney' one more time...." John lowered the newspaper to glare at him.

"What? What will you do? Is it murder? I could use a good murder." Sherlock squirmed in the chair until he was sitting more or less upright again.

"Didn't you have a murder case earlier this week?"

"That was days ago." He flopped his head against the back of his chair, his bare feet creeping out towards John. "Now I'm so bored."

"Well, what do you usually do to entertain yourself when I'm at work all day?" John had worked last Saturday, so he had a rare day off in the middle of the week today.

"Usually Rosie keeps me busy. I miss her."

"She's been going to school since September. What have you been doing every day for the last three months?"

"Being bored, mostly."

"I see." John raised the newspaper again, though the article he'd been reading seemed less important now. On the one hand, Sherlock was a grown man who should be able to occupy himself when he needed to. On the other hand, he and John were now alone together in the middle of the day for the first time in ages. John lifted his head to look over the top of the paper at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in a particular question. 

Sherlock looked back at him for moment, then blinked. "But it's eleven o'clock in the morning."

"So?" They had hours before Rosie would be home.

"So, we only do that at night." He waggled his fingers between the two of them at the word 'that.'

"Because we have a young child who gave up naps years ago. But now...." John let his tongue dart out between his lips in anticipation.

Sherlock's hesitation evaporated. He popped up to stand directly in front of John, his bare toes wiggling against John's socks. "John, I need to tell you something," he said.

"What?" 

"Please don't be angry with me."

John narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I may not be a chimney sweep, but I still feel as lucky as lucky can be." He sang the last few words, then stooped to drop a quick kiss on John's lips, before running off towards the bedroom, just begging John to chase after him.


	12. Bah Humbug

Molly found Rosie sitting alone at the kitchen table, head buried in her arms, quietly sobbing.

"Oh, sweetie, what's wrong?"

"Everything." Rosie didn't lift her head to respond.

Molly glanced back out into the party and then closed the door, shutting the two of them away from everyone else. Greg could entertain their guests for a while, and the party had been going on long enough that she didn't care if people got bored and started to leave now, anyway. She pulled a chair around the table so she could sit next to Rosie. "What happened?"

"Everything!” Rosie repeated, and sat up enough to speak. “It was terrible! First, it was Bella. She was drinking the spiked punch, and I knew she was doing it, but I didn't know how much she'd had. So then she came over to talk to me, and I smiled at her, and she kissed me. But her mouth tasted awful—I think she had eggnog, too, and it was disgusting, so I asked her to stop, but she wouldn't! She just kept trying to kiss me, like I owed her because she came to the party with me, until finally Uncle Greg saw us and started to come over and then I think she got scared because she knows he's a cop, so she left."

"Aw, sweetie, I'm so sorry." Molly scooted her chair closer and tried to put her arms around Rosie, but Rosie put her head back down on the table. "But it's good that you were here when she did that, with people around to watch out for you."

"I know." Rosie lifted her head and wiped at her nose with a bright red paper napkin. "And then after she left, Daniel came over to me. I wasn't even sure about inviting him, because I don't really know him that much, and I was right, I shouldn't have!"

"Oh, no. What did he do?"

"He filmed me and Bella kissing! And then he tried to show it to me!" 

"Oh, dear. Did Greg chase him off, too?" 

"No, I told him to get out on my own. And he listened to me, at least. But still. He just wanted to watch me and Bella. And he still has that video on his phone!"

"I bet your Uncle Mycroft could get that deleted for you. I've heard of him doing things like that before."

"Okay. I'll ask him to." Rosie nodded and sniffed, but didn't say anything more after that.

Molly hated to ask, but she had to know. "So, erm, you brought three dates tonight, right? What happened to the third one?"

"Nothing!” Rosie blurted. “Leo's out there drinking the plain punch and talking to Dad, I think. But go look at Dad's face and you'll know how boring Leo is. Dad's just being polite. But I don't want to date someone who's boring—I want someone who's interesting and exciting and smart!"

"Oh, sweetie, I feel you there.” Molly reached out and patted Rosie’s shoulder. “But you'll find someone someday, I promise."

Rosie sort of smiled at her, which was probably the most Molly could hope for right now. "Do you want to go back out to the party, or do you want me to go get your dads and tell them you want to go home?"

"Can I just stay in here for a while? I know Sherlock's having fun torturing DI Donovan about the solution to the case she's working on, and I don't want to make him leave."

"Sure, that's fine, Rosie. I should go back out to the party and be sociable, I guess, but I can steal a couple of mince pies for you if you want."

Rosie nodded. "Thank you. I like the ones that have the little snowflakes on them."

"Okay." Molly tried not to react to the fact that Rosie preferred the store-bought to the ones she had made herself. She stood up, then bent to give her a quick hug. "I'm sorry none of your dates worked out tonight. How did you even come up with the idea to bring three people all at once?"

"It was Sherlock's idea."

"Ah. Of course." Molly stepped back from the table. "Rosie, you're a smart girl, usually, but you should really know better than to ever follow any sort of lifestyle advice from Sherlock."

Rosie frowned. "But Dad said it wasn't the worst idea he'd had."

"Oh, sweetheart." Molly had to keep herself from laughing. "Your dad is also a smart man, except when it comes to Sherlock, he's an idiot. He goes along with anything Sherlock suggests, and it's almost never a good idea. Okay? Don't listen to them. If you want dating advice, ask me, or Uncle Greg, or literally anyone else." Molly couldn't really believe she was suggesting that she was the most qualified person to advise her on dating, but given the choices Rosie had, it seemed to be true. The poor girl. Maybe next year when she went to uni she'd meet some people who were a little better at giving out advice that was actually useful in real life.


	13. Family

Sherlock was sitting quietly in the kitchen, drinking tea and minding his own business while he waited for John to come downstairs with Rosie, when he was rudely interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. She let herself into the flat, as usual, calling out to announce herself and then strolling right into the kitchen.

"Oh, Sherlock, good! I was hoping you'd be awake."

"Why?" He wrinkled his nose at her—she wasn't holding any baked goods, even though she'd made Christmas stollen yesterday.

She was, however, holding a folded-up newspaper, one of the gossip tabloids that she enjoyed so much; she was clutching it to her chest, as if hugging it. "Now, I know what you're probably going to say when you see this, but there's just the most precious photograph in today's paper."

"Hm. Precious. Is it a pile of diamonds and gold, or a kitten?" He picked up his cup of tea again, prepared to tune her out. 

She giggled and then stuck the newspaper in front of him. "Go on, take it."

He put his tea back down and plucked the paper from her hands, deducing that the quickest way to get her to stop bothering him would be to humor her. "What am I looking for?"

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it." She giggled again.

Sherlock sighed and moved his tea cup so he could spread the paper on the table, then began turning pages, only half-looking at them. Until— "What...how?" The photo was in full color, apparently snapped last evening when he and John had taken Rosie out for a stroll after dinner. Sherlock was holding her on one hip, a smile on his face as he pointed to something out of the shot—Christmas lights, lit up in every color of the rainbow, he recalled. One of Rosie's arms was in the air, too, waving in delight at the sight, while her other hand clutched tightly at his coat sleeve. John was next to them, an arm around Sherlock's waist, looking not at the lights but at Sherlock and Rosie, his expression unguarded and warm.

"Read what it says!" Mrs. Hudson said.

"I am." The caption beneath the photo was ridiculous, clearly pandering to the paper's audience of women of Mrs. Hudson's age. _Famously Furious Detective Sherlock Holmes lets his softer side show in the company of his partner, Dr. John Watson, and daughter, Rosie, 2._ "Famously furious? What does that even mean? And softer side? This is libel."

"No, it's magnificent!"

Sherlock sneered in disgust. At least it was buried inside the paper, further than he hoped most people would bother to read. He slid it away from himself so he could return to his tea. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would go get her homemade stollen for him, now that he'd looked at that preposterous photo. Before he could ask, he felt his phone buzz in the pocket of his dressing gown. A text alert he recognized but rarely heard. He frowned and pulled the phone out—yes, it was a text from Mummy. He tapped it to open and was greeted with an image of the same newspaper photo, along with a message: _Wanted to make sure you saw this, Sherlock._

"Oh, God," he said aloud, and then his phone buzzed again. _Do you think if I call the paper, they would send me a copy of the photo? I'd like at least a 10x8, for the wall in the front living room._ Sherlock put his phone face down on the table and sighed in frustration.

Fortunately, John chose that moment to come down the stairs; Sherlock could hear Rosie babbling to him, still excited about the "wights" she had seen last night. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at her as John carried her into the kitchen. "Good morning little rosebud. Are you ready for some breakfast? I think Mrs. Hudson has some Christmas stollen that you would enjoy."

Mrs. Hudson failed to take the hint. "John, you have to see what was in the paper this morning. It's the most beautiful photo of the three of you together." She put her hands out for Rosie, who happily let herself be passed off. 

Once she was out of his arms, John rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, then leaned over to look at the photograph. He didn't say anything, but Sherlock saw his sleepy morning look clear up into a genuine smile. 

Sherlock huffed. "The picture may be acceptable, but whoever wrote the caption couldn't even be bothered to accurately identify whose daughter she is."

"You're right." John stepped closer and settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It should read 'their daughter, Rosie'."

Sherlock inhaled before he could stop himself. John should know better than to be so sappy in front of...well, he supposed it was fine if Mrs. Hudson saw. He brushed his hand over John's and then reached to relieve Mrs. Hudson of Rosie, who had begun to squirm.

"Sh'wock!" Rosie announced, and threw herself into his arms. He tried to lower her to the floor—she could certainly walk when she wanted to—but she wrapped her small arms around his neck, her head butting against his chin. "Sh'wock," she said again, more softly this time, and he exhaled against her hair. Maybe having the photo appear in the newspaper wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Rosie might enjoy having a copy of it when she was older. As long as the general public didn't start to believe that nonsense that said he had a softer side.


	14. Not a Creature Was Stirring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick little 221B, thanks to my two very talkative children who left me little time to write today.

Mummy wouldn't have opened it herself—she didn't want to intrude, after all—but that bedroom door never did latch properly, and at some point in the night it had drifted open nearly all the way. Well, enough for her to see in, at least. And, of course, it wasn't her fault there was a nightlight on in the room. That caught her by surprise, until she saw Rosie was asleep in the bed, too, sprawled on her back between Sherlock and John, her head mostly on Sherlock's pillow. 

Easy enough to deduce what had happened: Rosie had woken up alone in a strange room and insisted on crawling into bed with her parents, who'd been too tired to object. What Mummy found more remarkable was the fact that this situation could occur at all. It had been many years since a small girl slept beneath this roof, and Mummy had never dared imagine that there would one day be this tiny child who called her Gram, and who made Sherlock so content. Yet here she was, two stone of toddler, sound asleep with her mouth open and her arms thrown to either side, touching her two fathers. 

Mummy blinked her eyes shut, letting the image imprint on her mind, then reached out and quietly shut the door to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosie not wanting to sleep in a room alone at Gram and Grandad's seems to be a tradition, since she's not quite 2 in this one and not quite 4 in the one earlier when the power goes out. :)


	15. Baby Please Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switched the prompts around because the one for today ended up being more complicated than I could write in the time I had tonight. 
> 
> Content warnings for discussion of pregnancy and pre-eclampsia (happy ending of course!).

"She was really hoping for a New Year's baby, and it's still over a week until Christmas," Sherlock said, and even if John hadn't heard the worry in his voice, he would know it was there, because he was feeling the same thing himself.

"It'll be okay," John said, to reassure them both, and climbed into the bed next to him. "She's only two weeks early. That's considered full-term."

"I know," Sherlock snapped.

"I know you know." He rolled onto his side and scooted closer to Sherlock, pulling the blankets up to both their shoulders. The sensation of lying down in their own bed was almost enough to make him relax. They'd been at the hospital since yesterday morning; Rosie had insisted they not spend another night there, and her husband had bustled them into a cab. 

"She's never had high-blood pressure before," Sherlock said, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above them. "Mary didn't have pre-eclampsia. Is there a history of it in your family?"

"Not that I know of." John slid one hand across the mattress and settled it on Sherlock's shoulder.

"She's so young. She's too young to go through this. We should be there—"

"She's 24, Sherlock. Not too young. That's actually an ideal age for childbirth. It was much riskier for Mary at her age."

"Yet Mary was fine, and Rosie isn't and—"

"Stop. Just stop it, all right? She is fine. She will be fine. Everything will be okay."

"She's been in labor for two days."

"A day and a half. And if the baby's not here by tomorrow, she'll have a C-section in the morning and that will also be fine. She's at the best hospital in London, with the best doctors and nurses, and by this time tomorrow we will have a grandchild, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't reply for a long moment, then he turned his head toward John. "Our baby can't have a baby, John."

John chuckled and moved even closer to him, draping his arm over his chest. "Yes, she can, and she is. I'm going to start calling you Grandad."

"No, you'll be Grandad. I'll be Papa. Rosie and I have already discussed it."

"Oh, you have, have you? Without me?"

"We knew you'd be happy with whatever we decided. And anyway—" He was interrupted by buzzing sounds from both sides of the bed: their phones, each receiving a message. 

They rolled apart and grabbed their phones in unison. It was Rosie's text alert, not her husband's, which had to be a good sign, John hoped. And it was. He and Sherlock turned back to each other, grinning and reaching to embrace as their screens filled with the image of Rosie and her new baby boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this prompt because I like the song, but it implies a couple fighting and being apart and I didn't want to write that, so you get this instead. : )


	16. Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of last minute travel and almost disastrous cookie-making at my house today means another quick story, and the prompt I skipped over still waiting for attention. Hope you like this one instead!

Sometimes Sherlock thought he should start drinking more.

Perhaps if he built up his tolerance, he'd be able to have more than a drink or two without growing sleepy and maudlin. Earlier tonight, John had opened a bottle of wine a client had given them, and they'd each had two glasses with dinner. Now, John was trimming the Christmas tree with Rosie, completely unaffected, while Sherlock lay on the sofa and tried not to cry. He'd sniffled once, when John had plugged in the fairy lights, and then passed it off as a pine allergy, though the tree was artificial. A plastic pine allergy. All those chemicals—very hard to breathe around them, obviously. Next year they should get a real tree.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and watched as John stood behind the tree, reaching forward to pass a strand of garland to Rosie, who would run around the front and return it to John again. There was nothing inherently sentimental about the action, and Sherlock thought his heart might burst watching. He should pour the last bit of wine that was left in the bottle down the drain and never touch alcohol again. 

John stepped out from behind the tree and Sherlock felt even worse. Or maybe better. There were a few silvery flakes from the garland that had attached themselves to John's jumper, and his hair glittered silver in the soft rainbow light of the tree, as well. Sherlock wanted to get up and sweep him into his arms and kiss him until they both couldn't breathe, and he also wanted to sweep Rosie off her feet and make her giggle until she begged him to stop. How could he be expected to function while living in the same flat with two people who made him feel that way?

Rosie started to open the boxes of ornaments, exclaiming over each new color and shape, and Sherlock wished he'd drunk enough to pass out, rather than watch such a torturously joyful event. He'd never imagined that his life would come to this. Rosie's continued happy existence and growth here in this flat was unbelievable. What had he ever done to deserve a child who loved him and made him as happy as she did every day? Even her tantrums were a pleasure. No. That wasn't true. He was definitely drunk and unable to think clearly right now.

Drinking always did make him lose control of his thoughts, which was unbearable. Though, in some ways, it also made it easier. Easier to reflect on the long line of events that had culminated here, with him and John together, despite all the horrible things they had each done and the times they had nearly lost one another. Those terrible times made him appreciate what they had now even more, especially when he was inebriated and open to thinking such thoughts. 

John and Rosie finished with the ornaments and John pulled out one last box from the bright red storage container he'd dragged up from the basement. "Time to put the star on top, Rosie. Who do we know that's tall enough to do that for us, hmm?"

"Sherlock!" Rosie shouted. "Come help us!"

Sherlock smiled and wiped at his eyes one more time, recalling how just a few short years ago Rosie had been unable to say most of his name. Sh'wock, indeed. He sat up slowly, dropping his feet to the ground, and stood, expecting the floor to roll and his stomach to churn. Nothing happened. He felt fine. What was in that wine? How could he possibly have recovered so quickly? He shook his head, which wasn't spinning at all, and crossed the room towards the Christmas tree, wondering what else could have made him so emotional tonight.


	17. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the prompt I skipped a couple days ago, and kept starting over with. I didn't really want to leave Eurus's visit hanging, but I also feel like there's a lot more potential plot there than I can accommodate in a few ficlets, so I don't know how much more I will resolve it. Anyway, I figured after a couple of fluffy days it was time for something less happy. Sorry not sorry!

All the men with black outfits and guns were gone, and so was Aunt Eurus, and Rosie was alone in the flat with her dads again.

"We should ground you until you're 18," Dad said, but he dropped down onto the sofa next to her and wrapped his arms around her so tightly she could barely breathe.

Rosie wriggled until he loosened his grip. "You can't ground me. You never even told me she was in prison! I had to figure it out on my own. How was I supposed to know that she escaped? I thought she just got released and didn't tell Sherlock because she wanted it to be a surprise."

"It was certainly a surprise," Sherlock said. He was pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. Rosie wished he would stop and come sit down with her and Dad, but he didn't. "I told you we shouldn't have kept Eurus a secret from her," he said, and Rosie had never heard him sound like that talking to Dad before.

Dad's arm around her tightened again. "How would knowing about her have helped?"

"She would have called us instead of letting her in!"

"I didn't let her in," Rosie said. She squirmed out of Dad's embrace again and slid further away from him on the sofa. "She just opened the door and came in on her own."

"Of course she did," Dad said. "A little thing like a locked door wouldn't stop her. Why would she even come here? Was she just trying to mess with us, show us that she could get free again whenever she wants?”

“Yes, probably, but I also think she genuinely wanted to meet Rosie, and to be part of the family.”

Dad laughed, a very sharp and unfunny sound. “Well, I don’t believe that for a second. And she’s never going to be a part of Rosie’s family—that’s where I draw the line. If you and Mycroft want to keep visiting her, that’s your problem, but keep her away from my daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Sherlock said, and stopped pacing, and the whole flat seemed to freeze in place along with him.

Dad wasn't touching her anymore, but Rosie could still feel how his whole body tensed, as if bracing for a fight. She turned her head very slightly to look at him and saw his chest rising and falling as he breathed, the collar of the checked shirt he wore fluttering against his neck with each exhalation. After a few very long seconds, his shoulders sagged slightly. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. But Eurus is not seeing Rosie again.”

Rosie swallowed and tried to cut through some of the bad feelings that were filling the room. “What’s so bad about her seeing me? Is it because of the drugs stuff? You don’t have to worry about that with me.” She gave Sherlock a small, tight smile; he hadn't told her a lot about what he'd done in the past, but she knew he'd had a problem. 

"Drugs stuff?" Dad's face went hard again. "Is Eurus into that now, too?"

"No." Sherlock began to pace again. "That's never been anything she's had an interest in. Mycroft would have told me."

Dad snorted another sound that was almost like a laugh.

"Isn't that why she's in prison?" Rosie looked back and forth between the two of them in confusion.

"No. No, that is not why she is in prison, Rosie," Dad said. "She's in prison because she's a murderer."

"Oh, and who among us shouldn't be in prison, John?" Sherlock muttered, which didn't make any sense at all.

Dad ignored him and said to Rosie, "She's killed a lot of people, probably more than we even know about."

Rosie felt her eyes widen. Aunt Eurus sure hadn't seemed like a murderer while she was here. "She was nice to me today."

"She's a very good actor," Dad said. "She can make anyone believe just about anything she wants."

"Like Moriarty," she said. Sherlock and Dad had never talked to her about Aunt Eurus, but she knew a lot about Moriarty and the things he'd done. "Did Moriarty escape from prison, too? And then Sherlock caught him on the roof of the hospital and he killed himself instead of going back?"

"What?" Dad said. "No. Moriarty wasn't in prison."

"Why not? He killed people, too, right? Like Aunt Eurus."

"Yes, but he was acquitted at trial, so he went free."

"Oh, so Aunt Eurus was guilty at her trial."

"Eurus never had a trial," Sherlock said. His pacing back and forth got faster.

Dad frowned. "Eurus.... Look, Rosie, this is kind of a grown-up matter. We're not really mad at you for not telling us she was here, but right now we need you to go upstairs to your room. I think Sherlock and I need to talk to each other."

Rosie nodded. She didn't really want to keep having this conversation now, anyway. "But...you aren't going to keep arguing, are you? Because I'm sorry I didn't tell you Aunt Eurus was here, but please don't fight about it." They hardly ever fought for real—usually they just called each other idiots and acted annoyed and then made sure to kiss before one of them left the room. Today had been different, and Rosie knew loads of kids whose parents were divorced, and Dad and Sherlock weren't even actually married. What if they were so angry they didn't want to be together anymore? 

Sherlock finally stopped pacing and came over to sit next to her on the sofa. "What you're thinking about right now is not going to happen, Rosie. The three of us will always be here together. We just need to talk about some other family issues."

"Family issues," Dad repeated, and shook his head. "No, Sherlock is right, though. It would take a lot more than one criminally insane sibling to tear us apart." He sighed and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. "Go on up to bed, though. It's close to midnight."

"It's 8:15," Rosie told him.

"Well, it feels like midnight," he said.

Rosie had to agree. She kissed and hugged both him and Sherlock and headed upstairs to her room, hoping that everything would be all worked out by the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am planning on writing a longer fic with Eurus next, but Rosie is still going to be a toddler in it, so this is my only chance to explore how the situation might look from Rosie's POV.


	18. Exhausted

John reached out to push open the door to the flat, but before he could, it opened for him. Rosie was on the other side, stretching up to reach the doorknob that was level with her head, a finger raised to her mouth in warning.

"Shh! Sherlock's asleep!" She let go of the door and her whole body turned as she pointed toward the sofa, where Sherlock was indeed asleep, curled on his side, only his head and one hand sticking out from beneath the quilt that was usually kept on Rosie's bed.

John glanced down at Rosie and then nodded toward the kitchen. His hands were full with bags from two different takeaway places and the chemist where he'd picked up some cough syrup and throat lozenges—Sherlock only liked the honey-flavored ones. 

Rosie nodded and led him through to the kitchen, where he pulled the seldom-used pocket doors shut so they wouldn't disturb Sherlock. 

"How long has he been asleep?" John asked, as he began to unpack the food. 

"I went to the loo right after you left and when I came out, he was asleep. So I went and got a blanket for him."

"Good girl, Rosie. We'll let him sleep and we can heat up his soup later when he wakes up."

"Okay." She pushed a chair away from the table so she could climb onto it and reach the plates for their dinner. John winced at the noise she made, but a glance out at Sherlock confirmed that he hadn't moved at all.

John and Rosie sat and ate together, both glancing over frequently to check on Sherlock, who rolled onto his back and stuck his still-slippered feet out from beneath the quilt, but never opened his eyes. 

"He was coughing all day. I could even hear him when I went down to Mrs. Hudson's for lunch," Rosie said. "He didn't have any lunch—he must be hungry. Should we wake him up so he can eat his soup?"

"No, I think we should let him sleep while he can. He was up coughing for most of the night, too." John himself had slept fitfully, as well, except for a couple of hours around midnight when Sherlock had grown frustrated with being awake and gone into the living room to watch late-night telly. 

They finished their meal and tidied up the dishes they'd used and those that had accumulated over the last few days, with John washing and Rosie drying and climbing up on the worktop to put everything away in the cabinets. John let her do it—her ability to reach any height in the flat was useful in his quest to make sure Sherlock's more dangerous experiments never got out of hand. 

Sherlock was still asleep when they were done, so John put his soup into the fridge for later and sent Rosie to get ready for bed. Sherlock stirred each time she passed through the living room, but still didn't wake up. John went upstairs and found another quilt in her cupboard for her to use tonight, since neither of them wanted to disturb Sherlock. He laid it out across her bed, then sat next to her while she read him a picture book. It was a good thing that she was reading on her own now, because when she was younger she'd always insisted that Sherlock be the one to read to her—John was only allowed to sing her a lullaby.

He sang her song to her now, quietly, and gave her a kiss goodnight, surreptitiously checking her temperature with a hand on her forehead because he was certain that she was going to catch what Sherlock had. She felt fine, though, and so he hoped they would be lucky this time. 

When he went back downstairs, he stopped to pick up the quilt that Sherlock had kicked entirely to the floor. As he placed it back over him, Sherlock opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily and stretched, and John leaned forward to give him a kiss high on his cheek, well away from his mouth.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, voice raspy and thick. "I think I must have closed my eyes and dozed off for a few minutes. When did you get home?"


	19. Escape

Their hotel room had a view of the beach, and though in John’s opinion it was much too cool for swimming, there were a handful of people who were braving the water anyway, mostly children Rosie’s age or younger, while their parents watched from the shore. 

John stretched his legs out until his toes touched the railing of the balcony, and looked back over his shoulder into the hotel room, to see how poorly Sherlock was treating the room service attendant. Thankfully, he appeared to have secured their food without incident, and a few moments later they were both sat on the balcony, enjoying their anniversary meal together. Ten years. 

“This veal is exquisite,” Sherlock said, and held a forkful out for John to try. 

John shook his head. “We’re on the ocean. I’m not eating veal. Try this fish.” He pushed his plate a few inches closer to Sherlock’s on the tiny wooden table they shared, and watched as Sherlock took a bite and made a face—he'd never really appreciated fine seafood. John pulled his plate back. “Do you think Rosie is eating your mum's cooking?" 

Sherlock wiped at the corner of his mouth before answering. “Yes, because Mummy is probably making her whatever she asks for." 

"True." John smiled and took a sip of his champagne. He hadn't had any in years—it tasted better than he recalled, and he realized he was conflating the memory with the sparkling apple juice they were served every year at Rosie’s school’s holiday party. 

“Rosie would be out there in the water with those other children,” Sherlock said, gesturing with his fork. “And you’d probably be with her, because you’d be afraid she’d get eaten by a shark or some such nonsense.” 

“Me?” John said. He turned his whole body toward Sherlock. “I’m not the overprotective one.” 

Sherlock snorted and returned his attention to his plate without replying. 

John took another sip of champagne, watching the families on the beach while he tried to think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t lead to talking about Rosie. They’d agreed when they booked this holiday that they needed time to be alone together, without worrying about her or anything else from their everyday lives. Sherlock had cleared his calendar of all his cases, and since they’d left London neither of them had mentioned work, but Rosie had been a more difficult subject to avoid. For a moment, John worried that they had become one of those couples who shared nothing in common except for their children, but he knew that wasn’t true. When they were at home, they still had plenty to talk and joke and bicker about that didn’t involve Rosie. But for some reason, they seemed to both be having trouble not thinking about her now that she wasn’t here with them. 

He set down his glass and turned to Sherlock again. “I think— 

“She must be missing us,” Sherlock said. “She’s never been away from both of us for so long before. Maybe we should Skype her, just to make sure she’s doing okay.” 

“Yes, good idea.” John glanced at his watch. “And it’s not quite dinner time in England, so now’s the perfect time.” He pushed his chair back from the small table and got up to go get his tablet. Rosie would be so happy to hear from them.


	20. Christmas Present

"But I paid you to take my case!" Mr. Fletcher stepped around his pretentiously large wooden desk towards Sherlock. "You have to solve it!" 

"No, I don't believe I do." Sherlock stood up, giving the wheeled chair he'd been sitting in a little extra shove with his foot to set it spinning away from the desk.

"I paid you more than most of my employees make in a year!"

"Well then, you should pay your employees better. They have to put up with you. I, however, am under no such obligation." He strode across the office to the rack where his coat hung and slipped it from the peg, making sure it flared out around him as he put it on. "I'll have my secretary return your payment first thing in the morning."

"Secretary? You don't have a secretary! You're just some two-bit detective working out of his flat with a washed-up old Army veteran supporting your made-up career."

"Mm." Sherlock didn't care in the least what Fletcher thought of him, and though the urge to defend John was strong, anything he said would just prolong his time here in this office. He was done with this tedious case. He turned and headed towards the door. 

"So is that it? This case is too difficult for you so you're just going to walk away from it?"

The case was not too difficult; the case was too time-consuming. "I have better things to do than spend the next several weeks combing through thousands of business records to find the culprit. It's almost Christmas. I'm going home."

"Christmas? What does that have to do with it? Why do you care about Christmas?"

"Though the day holds no particular religious significance to me, I have a child and partner who would greatly prefer that I be home to celebrate with them."

"Oh, is that how it is?" Fletcher took a few running steps towards the door, as if he could physically prevent Sherlock from leaving the office. "I have connections, you know. Lots of media connections. Do you want the big story in the news tomorrow to be about how the great detective Sherlock Holmes doesn't care about solving cases anymore, because he'd rather be at home with his family?"

Sherlock paused, considering, before he nodded. "Fine. Send them to Baker Street. Rosie would love to have her photo in the papers."

"That would ruin your career! No one wants to hire a detective who won't solve crimes. You're missing out on a chance to solve the business crime of the century." 

Sherlock shrugged. It was hardly the crime of the century, but again, arguing with Fletcher was not worth his time. He'd promised Rosie he would bake gingerbread with her tonight, and if he left now, he'd have time to stop and pick up a few final gifts for her and John. Solving Fletcher's case would not be nearly as rewarding as seeing the looks on their faces when they opened their presents. He reached up to tie his scarf around his neck, stepped past a still-sputtering Fletcher, and headed home to Baker Street.


	21. Winter

Winter  
By Rosie Watson

Some people don't like winter because it's too cold outside, but I like it because we can have a fire in the fireplace and if Daddy isn't home, Sherlock lets me light it with the long matches. Then I get to sit in Daddy's chair and keep it warm for him until he gets home.

One bad thing about winter is sometimes Sherlock gets bored because he says there are no good crimes. I try to play games with him to cheer him up but I know he is still sad when I have to go to school and Daddy is at work and he is home alone all day.

Last year it snowed when we went to Gram and Grandad's house and we all played outside and Sherlock had to wear Grandad's trousers because Gram said he shouldn't get his suit all wet. If it doesn't snow this year Daddy says we can go to the ice skating rink instead. 

Christmas is the best thing about winter for me because I am the only kid in my family so everyone buys me whatever I want. My friends are jealous, but I tell them that I would like to have other kids in my family like a sister or some cousins but since I don't I get lots of presents instead. 

The other reason I like Christmas is because there is no school. School is okay but also very boring. We have to read a lot but not things that are fun like books with good stories in them. I do like seeing my friends at school but this year Daddy says I can have Abby come over to visit and he will make sure that Sherlock cleans up his mess first and doesn't try to scare her. I don't think she will be scared because the only kid Sherlock has ever scared was Alfie Richardson when he told me I couldn't play on the monkey bars because I was a girl and that was two years ago.

I don't know if I like winter the best of all the seasons, because summer is probably more fun and we go on holiday to the beach and play in the park a lot more, but winter is still pretty good. I'm glad that I live someplace that has winter because I think I would miss it if we just had summer all the time.


	22. Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have now confirmed to myself that Eurus definitely offers far more material than can be neatly fit into a few ficlets, which is good for my plan to write a longer fic with her after this, but probably not so good for people looking for a solid resolution to the plot line here. :)

"Did you mean what you said, the other night?"

"Sorry, what?" John looked up at Sherlock, who had appeared silently in the living room and was now standing next to John's chair.

"When Eurus was here. After."

John blinked at him. "Still not following you."

Sherlock sighed. "You said it would take a lot more than one criminally insane sibling to tear us apart. Did you mean it?"

John lowered the journal he'd been reading, his whole body suddenly gone cold with trepidation. "Do you have another sibling that I don't know about, Sherlock?"

"What? No. I mean, not that I know of, of course. I just mean—" Sherlock took a deep breath. "I know what your feelings are on the matter, but I've thought about it a lot, and I would like it if Eurus were somehow able to maintain a relationship with Rosie."

John took his time folding down the corner of the page he'd been reading and setting the journal aside on the table next to him before answering. "I don't...," he began, and then closed his eyes briefly. "Sherlock, we can't do that to Rosie. We can't put her in harm's way."

"I know, I know." Sherlock fiddled his hands together for a moment and then sat down in his chair across from John, leaning forward on his knees. "I want to protect her, too. But short of keeping Eurus so heavily medicated that she can't move, I don't think there's any way to ensure that she won't ever escape again. And we can't keep Rosie under lock and key, either—she's a teenager now. But I truly don't think Eurus would ever harm her."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Maybe Sherlock was right, and Eurus wouldn't harm Rosie, but then again, she had tortured her older brothers without a second thought, so the label of family was no guarantee of safety. He didn't understand anything about Eurus's motivations, and wasn't even sure he wanted to. "Why did she let herself be caught and returned to Sherrinford so easily?" Eurus hadn't put up a fight when Mycroft's men had shown up to remove her from the flat—she'd lowered her head and put her hands behind her back and let them lead her away without saying a word.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "At first, I thought it was because she knew she was a danger and wanted to be locked up again, but I think it's more than that. I don't think she's emotionally capable of being free all of the time, and I think she knows it. There's too much data out here—the world is so big that it's overwhelming. I feel that way sometimes, and her intellect is vastly greater than mine. I think she's more comfortable when she's limited to four walls and a pair of guards. She can retreat into her own mind when she's locked up at Sherrinford, and not have to deal with anything else."

John squinted at him. "Are you...jealous? Do you wish you were in her position? So you could spend all your time in your Mind Palace?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe once I would have said yes, when I was much younger, but I know that there's quite a bit of value to be had in the world outside of my own head. Eurus never learned that. She never learned how to live in a world with other people at all."

"So...you're saying Eurus has no idea how she's supposed to interact with other human beings, and yet you want to let her be around Rosie? Sherlock." John tipped his head slightly to one side, looking at him.

"I understand what you're saying, John, but it's complicated. I don't think cutting Eurus off from any sympathetic human contact is the answer. I think perhaps if she hadn't been locked up as a very young child, if she'd instead had access to better mental health care and allowed to maintain some contact with our whole family instead of just Mycroft and Uncle Rudy, she may have ended up with a very different life."

"Like maybe not killing so many people?" John wasn't trying to be light-hearted, but God, this whole situation was frankly ridiculous if he thought about it for too long.

Sherlock pursed his lips, then nodded. "I don't know If she can truly be rehabilitated at this point, and I don't want to see her set free, but I also think she deserves something of a second chance. It's why I've been visiting her all these years."

"I know."

"And she hasn't killed anyone else in that time."

"That we know of," John said. Yes, people could change—Sherlock had, and he himself had, over the years—but he didn't know if that was true of Eurus. "I don't think—"

Sherlock interrupted him. "I'm not proposing that I take Rosie with me to visit her, don't worry. I think Sherrinford would be a bit much for any child to handle, even Rosie. What I'm suggesting is that they be allowed to play together. Rosie on cello, Eurus on violin. We could stay here in the flat with Rosie while they Skyped. They most likely wouldn't even speak to each other—Eurus has currently retreated into her head again, and is likely to remain non-communicative for some time, as she did all those years ago after she kidnapped us. But she still loves to play her violin." 

John gritted his teeth together, considering. Sherlock's proposal was not what he'd expected. Was it still risky? Maybe. Eurus didn't need to be in the same room as Rosie in order to influence her. And John was never going to trust Eurus, but he thought Sherlock did, a little, at least, and he trusted Sherlock. They'd always made parenting decisions together, and up until now, they were almost always on the same page. He'd still rather have Rosie know nothing at all about Eurus—truth be told, he'd rather Sherlock have nothing to do with her at all either. Long-lost sister or not, she had still tortured and nearly killed them at Sherrinford. But now that Rosie had met her, she wasn't going to forget about her Aunt Eurus, and Sherlock's idea to have them in contact only through Skype might be the best option. "We could end the video chat the moment we suspected Eurus of anything diabolical?"

"Diabolical?"

"That's what I said." John stared at him, then softened slightly. "All right. We'll try it. If Rosie wants to, of course."

"Of course. I'll talk to Mycroft, see about setting something up for next month, after the holidays."

John nodded and reached for his medical journal again. At least the only relative he had to deal with on his side was Harry. He never would've predicted that one day she would be the family member who caused the least drama. Of course, when it came to over-the-top spectacle and suspense, no one could outdo the Holmes family.


	23. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 221B, in which Sherlock finally comes to terms with who he really is. :)

It was risky, in a public place, with so many witnesses. But Sherlock couldn’t allow John to go alone—they needed to do this together.

“All right. I’m ready,” he said to John, and extended his arm so they could join hands.

“You sure?” John shifted Rosie on his hip so he could support her with only one arm. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, Sher-wock!” Rosie’s enunciation skills regressed as she edged between excitement and tears. “You hafta come, too!”

“I am, Rosie. Don’t worry.” He wished briefly that he was wearing his hat—if he was going to be recognized, he might as well play to his audience. But his true audience wasn’t the dozens of people around with their phones out, despite the signs warning against photo-taking. Rosie: she was the only reason he was here. “It’s time I let the world see the real me, I suppose.”

“Next family, please!” called a scrawny teenager wearing a red-striped hat with elf ears.

Rosie hid her face against John’s shoulder, and Sherlock ran his free hand down her back. “It’s okay, Rosie. We’re here with you.” He started forward, pulling John by the hand, hoping that if they both stayed with her, Rosie wouldn’t be afraid to sit on Santa’s lap, as she had been the year before.


	24. And To All a Good Night

"She asleep?" John asked, as Sherlock came down the stairs and into the living room, tightening the belt on his dressing gown against the chill of the hallway. 

"Yep." Sherlock popped the "p" in the word, but more quietly than he normally would. 

John watched Sherlock's shoulders soften slightly as he closed the door to the landing. Bedtime with Rosie was often the hardest part of the day, and Christmas Eve had promised to be even more difficult than usual. He and Sherlock had tried to act as if tonight were just like any other night, but somehow Rosie had picked up on the difference, even though she was too young to have much understanding of time. 

Sherlock sank into his chair. "I broke down and read her that book that Molly gave her. I guess there's no escaping it now. We'll have to celebrate tomorrow."

John laughed. "I think we've already committed to that." He nodded at the stack of gifts he'd brought out from the bedroom cupboard while Sherlock was putting Rosie to bed. Most were wrapped already; now he finished putting the last few toys they'd bought into gift bags while Sherlock arranged all of the packages beneath the tree. 

When they were done, Sherlock brought out a bottle of wine and they sat in their chairs by the fireplace, feet tangled together in familiarity. "The box all the way to the left is for you," Sherlock said, pointing with his almost-empty wine glass.

"I haven't put your gift out yet," John said. "Don't want you to guess what it is." 

"I never guess." Sherlock grinned and finished the last swallow of his wine. He stood up, set his glass on the desk, then walked around to stand behind John's chair. John expected a back rub, which would be very welcome, but instead Sherlock pulled the blanket from the back of his chair and shook it out.

"What are you doing?"

"Cozying up by the fire. Come on." Sherlock reached out and plucked the wine glass from John's hand. 

John let himself be pulled to his feet, and they settled together on the edge of the rug in front of the fireplace. Sherlock fussed with the blanket, stretching it over his own shoulders and wrapping it around John, who sat nestled between his legs. After more than a year, the blanket and the rug beneath them finally felt like part of the flat, instead of simply being replacements for the ones that had been destroyed in the explosion. John leaned back into Sherlock's arms with a sigh, letting all the stress of the past month—the past year—slowly fall away.

Everything was ready; everything was done. The gifts were wrapped, the cards were mailed, the flat was decorated, Rosie was asleep and tomorrow they would drive to Gram and Grandad's after they spent a leisurely morning here together. Well, as leisurely as Christmas morning with a toddler was likely to be. 

John could not remember ever having a Christmas Eve as perfect as this one. Last year, Rosie had been too young to be at all aware of the date, and he and Sherlock had still been awkwardly tiptoeing around each other, fumbling their way into a relationship that they both wanted but neither knew how to achieve. Before that...no. It had never been like this. He closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the warmth of the fire and the steady weight of Sherlock's arms around him. He had everything he'd ever wanted, now, and for the first time since he was a child, he thought that Christmas might be more than just another date on the calendar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented on this as the month went on! There were a lot of days when I didn't really feel like writing, but knowing I had people who were waiting for each ficlet helped keep me motivated!
> 
> And yes, I do plan to write a parentlock fic that begins with a panicked Sherlock calling John for help because Eurus shows up at Baker Street in labor. Where it ends up after that, I haven't quite figured out yet, so I don't know when it will be posted, but stay tuned! You can [subscribe to me as an author](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/profile) if you're interested in that or anything else I might write. Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to read the ficlets I've written in previous years, they can be found here:  
> [Welcome Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808971/chapters/39454312)  
> [Christmas With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886374/chapters/29438091)  
> [Breaking Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733127/chapters/20021335)  
> [Imagine the Christmas Dinners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337185/chapters/12323552)  
> Thank you!


End file.
